


The Odyssey

by mydogwatson



Series: Postcard Tales II [16]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-19 17:16:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7370572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to Flames in the Sky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Odyssey

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, a short postscript to one of my fav Postcard Tales. Hope you enjoy seeing the resolution. Although this was another tale that I could have continued on with...

John stood in front of the tiny cracked mirror and gave himself the best shave that he could manage with lukewarm water and a blade that had seen better days. It was all rather pathetic and provided even more evidence that he had indeed made the correct decision. The only decision, really. He splashed water on his face to remove the remains of the soap and then dried his hands and face using the small towel.

He limped over to the flimsy wardrobe and pulled out the least threadbare of the two suits hanging there, although it was a close run thing. The shirt was not much better, but at least it was clean and still held a little starch in the collar. He chose a tie that was new, purchased on implulse at Marks and Spenser the day before. A whim.

He used the mirror again to perfect the Windsor knot, not much hampered by the slight tremor still visible in his hand.

But even when the knot was perfect and the front of the shirt smoothed, John still stared at himself glumly. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done about the dark shadows under his eyes or wrinkles that aged him more than his years. Likewise, there was no overlooking the hated government-issued cane.

Not that any of these things mattered in the slightest.

Because, of course, he had absolutely no intention at all of actually keeping the appointment. If ‘appointment’ it could even be called.

Or maybe it was a date.

Still didn’t matter.

In truth, all it came down to was five nights spent on a rooftop, watching the sky for bombs and sharing a few [all right, more than a few] clandestine kisses above a city [in a world] being devoured by flames.

And what did promises to meet again even mean when two men were headed off into war and no one’s future was assured?

But who could have known that it would take so long for the world to regain its sanity? Or that the Dr John Watson who had marched off to war so confidently, would return a useless cripple? Of course, he could not disagree with those who said his leg injury was psychosomatic, but that acceptance did nothing to lessen his pain or his stumbling. And the hand tremor was much too real. Real enough to end his life as a surgeon.

He was trying to survive on his military pension in London and rapidly coming to the conclusion that it was not possible. But there was no place else he wanted to be. Most especially, he had no desire to turn to his sister for help. In part, because she was an increasingly surly drunk, but primarily because she lived in a small, painfully boring town much too far from London. At least now he could try to lose himself in the hustle and bustle of the loud and raucous city.

No, there was absolutely nothing about his life that would allow him to even think about showing up at the Criterion for dinner with Sherlock Holmes. Not that he thought for one moment that Holmes would show up either. Why should he? It had been over five years since their goodbye on Barts’ roof and Holmes probably didn’t even remember the promise to meet on this date.

Five dreadful years that he himself had barely managed to survive.

And that was part of his reluctance, wasn’t it?

By failing to turn up, John thought that he would never have to wonder why Holmes [Sherlock seemed too intimate in the circumstance] had not come. A simple disinclination on the other man’s part to revisit what had really only been five nights so long ago would be one thing and John could live with that. But there would always be the thought that Holmes did not show because he was dead. After only a very short time of knowing Holmes, John had understood that the man would always seek out adventure. Whatever he had been doing in the war was probably even more dangerous than being a doctor mostly behind the front lines.

So, all in all, John knew that there was absolutely nothing to be gained by showing up for some supposed date with a memory.

In the end, he took the bloody stick and walked until he found a quiet pub. Standing at the bar, he had a pint and thought about the past and what might have been, even if it could never really have been at all. The bartender came to see if he wanted a second pint and John almost said ‘yes’. Then, instead, he just shook his head, walked out into the mild April night, and headed for the Criterion.

Once there, trying not to feel self-conscious about his undeniably shabby appearance, John took a seat at the bar. Instead of another pint, he ordered a shot of Glenlivet. It would mean very scant provisions for the next week, but he decided not to worry about it. He took a careful sip, enjoying the warmth as it went down.

“You almost didn’t come,” a still-familiar voice whispered into John’s ear.

He did not look around. “You’re right. I almost didn’t.”

Sherlock slid onto the neighbouring stool. “That would have been very disappointing.”

John finally turned to look at him. Still as posh and elegant as he had been, although there were now a few creases around his eyes and there was a faint white scar across one cheek. “You would have been disappointed?”

Instead of answering, Sherlock stood again. “Come along, John, I have a table reserved.”

John felt the heat rush into his face. There was no way that he could afford to pay for a meal here.

“It was my invitation, John,” Sherlock said. Then he gave a small shrug. “I pickpocketed my dreadful brother this morning. We shall dine in style.”

Now that was probably [definitely] not a good thing, but John downed the rest of the whiskey and followed Sherlock to a table, trying not to limp too badly. Once they were seated and perusing the menu, Sherlock spoke. “As well as being disappointed not to see you, I would have had to go to my dreadful brother, who is the British government, and ask him to track you down. No matter what it took to do so.”

John stared at him. There was really nothing he could say to any of that.

Sherlock closed the menu and set it aside with a sigh. A moment later, John felt a warm hand resting on his knee. “John, do you imagine that there has been one day over the last five years that I have not thought of you? Sometimes, in fact, those memories and the promise of this reunion were all that saw me through.”

“I thought of you as well,” John managed to say.

“I should hope so.” Then Sherlock smiled and the years seemed to drop away. Time and whatever had happened to them while apart became meaningless.

Before they could even order their meals, however, the maître d’ came to their table, looking apologetic. “Mr Homes, sir, so sorry, but this was just delivered here for you.” He set a telegram onto the table.

Sherlock ripped open the envelope, read the message, and beamed. “Another murder,” he said cheerfully. “Lestrade needs me.”

John had no idea what to make of that, but it seemed obvious that the dinner was over before it had truly begun. “Well,” he said. “All right. I’ll just…”

Sherlock was standing now, looking down at him. “Don’t be an idiot, John. I have been waiting all these years just so we could go on cases together. Just didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

Still not entirely sure what was happening, John glanced at the cane leaning against the table. “But I---”

Sherlock dismissed his words with a haughty wave. “Oh, I suppose you need the thing for now. Don’t fuss about it.”

So John followed Sherlock out of the Criterion, followed him across town to a crime scene, to the morgue, to a Chinese restaurant and, much later that night, John Watson followed Sherlock Holmes up seventeen steps into a flat on Baker Street. 

It was not until dawn, as they lay wrapped together in bed, damp and sticky and completely content, that John remembered his cane, left behind in the morgue.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Odyssey by Homer


End file.
